


The Curse Of The Ninth

by ElphieRix



Category: Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Modern: No Powers, Angst, Angst and Fluff, Author's Favourite, Bisexual Tony Stark, But Like........Emotionally, But Nobody Dies In This Story, But You Really Don't Need To Have Listened To It To Know What's Going On, Composer!Tony Stark, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Gen, Happy Ending, He Does An Understandable But Shitty Thing, Howard Stark's A+ Parenting, Hurt Peter Parker, Hurt Tony Stark, I Gave May Parker Cancer Sorry, I Had An Army Of Betas And They're All Beautiful, I've Tagged Everyone Who Actually Has A Speaking Role But The Focus Is Very Much Tony And Peter, Iron Dad Without The Iron But Still With The Emotional Baggage, It's Just Bonus, It’s Not Said In As Many Words But Tony Stark Is Pretty Obviously Depressed, Just Like Canon Really, Light Mention Of, Musician!Peter Parker, Obadiah Stane Is An Evil Manipulative Bastard, Or Rather An Uplifting Ending I Feel, Panic Attacks, People Died In The Past Though, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Preludes AU, Spider Son Without The Spider But Still With The Emotional Baggage, Steve Screws Tony Over But I Don't Think I'm Mean To Him, Technically This Is A, The Author Did Their Best And Some Actual Research But They Still Don't Know Anything About Music, The Ships Are Background But Significant, Tony Stark Has A Heart, Tony Stark Needs a Hug, canon character death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-25
Updated: 2019-03-25
Packaged: 2019-12-07 10:41:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,293
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18233804
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElphieRix/pseuds/ElphieRix
Summary: Peter Parker is in a coffee shop with Tony Stark. It’s like he’s slipped into some kind of parallel universe. A parallel universe where it’s totally normal for a kid from Queens to meet with the greatest composer who’s ever lived at his local Starbucks. He isn’t sure why he agreed to do this, besides the fact that it was Tony Stark asking. He knows it’s a terrible idea, the man can only want to talk about music and Peter doesn’t play anymore.Oh my god I’m actually gonna disappoint my hero, he thinks.***The superstition that a composer is fated to die upon completing his ninth symphony has no real evidence behind it. The curse of the ninth is folklore, nothing more.So why hasn't Tony Stark hasn't written anything for eight years?ORHow music ruined and then saved the lives of Tony Stark and Peter Parker.





	The Curse Of The Ninth

**_-1993-_ **

  
  
The last notes of the symphony die down.

  
  
Tony can feel every bead of sweat on his forehead, on the back of his neck, sticking in his hair, trickling down his spine. His heart hovers in his throat and he’s scared he’s going to throw it up. The only thing grounding him is Obie’s hand on his forearm. It’s too warm, but it’s real and there and Obie will be proud of him whatever happens tonight.

  
  
_Why is it so hot?_ thinks Tony.

  
  
If the heating is broken he could fix it, but it’s too late now and who would have thought to ask him anyway? Obadiah doesn’t like it when he tinkers with machinery (he says he shouldn’t risk his hands) and most of the time Tony doesn’t mind spending every waking hour at the piano, so no one really knows how good he is at fixing things. Tony wishes he’d told them somehow cause it’s so damn hot and he could have sorted it already.

  
  
He’s nineteen. He’s been free of his father and grieving his mother for two years and he’s finally, finally, finally able to show his music to someone outside his family. Tony should be ecstatic but instead his heart hammers in his chest and he’s certain he’s going to be sick and it’s over the symphony is finished but it’s still so quiet.

  
  
_They hate it they hate it they hate it they hate it,_ he thinks.

  
  
Then it begins. One person shyly clapping their hands together and someone else whoops quietly and suddenly the entire theatre is standing and cheering for him. Obie pulls him to his feet and drags him from his seat at the front of the audience onto the stage. Even the conductor and the orchestra are clapping and Tony stares out at a sea of people all crying out in adoration of _him_.

  
  
_This is what you wanted, isn’t it?_ says a voice in the back of Tony’s mind that sounds an awful lot like Howard.

  
  
**_-2018-_ **

  
  
_Tony Stark@youknowhoiam just followed you on Twitter!_

 _  
_  
Peter stares at the notification in shock. It’s his old music account, the one he hasn’t touched in years. Tony Stark hasn’t released a new composition for years either but still... Tony freakin’ Stark. Peter’s fingers twitch and he can hear the chord progression of the song he should write in celebration. But really it’s dishonest to get excited. He doesn’t play anymore.

  
  
He bites at the skin around his thumbnail indecisively. _Am I really gonna DM Tony Stark?_ Peter thinks.

  
  
_Hi Mr Stark, sorry to bother you and I know you probably followed me on accident but I just wanted to let you know that I don’t really play anymore so if you’re looking for new stuff from me it’s not gonna happen. Sorry I just thought you should know._

 _  
_  
Peter feels sick as soon as he sends it, then even more sick when a reply pops up almost immediately.

  
  
_Shame,_ is all it says.

  
  
**_-2006-_ **

  
  
“I never gave the okay for this,” says Tony.

  
  
“Are you kidding? This is great! An honour, Tony,” says Obadiah.

  
  
“Who did the lyrics? Was it Hammer?”

  
  
“You’re an American hero! The voice of the nation!” continues Obie as if Tony hadn’t said anything.

  
  
“I mean _come one, come all/ for our country we will gladly fall_? It’s gotta be Hammer, right?” Tony says, his nose wrinkling in disgust.

  
  
He isn’t exactly sure who they’re at war with, but somehow through some complicated chain of copyright and sold-off music, the US military is using his _Piano Concerto No. 3 (Ode to Electric Sheep)_ as a recruitment anthem. And it’s working. His music and Hammer’s crappy lyrics have officially combined to up the number of volunteers by 2.7%. A number that is small but significant, according to Obie. He claims it will win them the war.

  
  
“Tony,” Obadiah says, slinging an arm over his shoulders. “This is gonna boost your profile in so many ways. I’ve had to add extra dates to your Sydney shows and they’ve already sold out. Do you know how many composers sell out the Sydney Opera House for over a month? It’s just you and... well, you. You’re redefining the big leagues here.”

  
  
“Fine,” he says, because he knows he doesn’t have a choice and there’s no point in fighting it. He doesn’t mention that he doesn’t want to be in Australia for over a month, or that he was never that interested in the big leagues. He just wants to _really_ play the piano.

  
  
Tony’s hands are shaking and Obadiah frowns when he notices.

  
  
“Have a drink, son,” he says.

  
  
**_-2018-_ **

  
  
Peter Parker is in a coffee shop with Tony Stark. It’s like he’s slipped into some kind of parallel universe. A parallel universe where it’s totally normal for a kid from Queens to meet with the greatest composer who’s ever lived at his local Starbucks. He isn’t sure why he agreed to do this, besides the fact that it was Tony Stark asking. He knows it’s a terrible idea, the man can only want to talk about music and Peter doesn’t play anymore.

  
  
_Oh my god I’m actually gonna disappoint my hero,_ he thinks.  

  
  
“You’ve heard of SHIELD.” It’s not a question. Tony leans back in his chair and looks at Peter over the rim of his red-tinted sunglasses.

  
  
“Um... yeah? They’re that charity, right?” Peter says.

  
  
Tony has ordered six espresso shots and an empty cup and Peter watches in horror as the man pours them all into the mug and downs it.

  
  
“They’re doing this concert thing, like _Live Aid_ -you know _Live Aid_ , right?- but with classical music,” says Tony. “And they want me to write something for it. Preferably something not shitty but they’re a charity so they’ll take what they can get.”

  
  
Peter nods and doesn’t say anything, he’s not sure he can. The whole situation is too weird.

  
  
“So for some reason they ask me,” continues Tony. “I guess my genius was enough for them to overlook how I’m not exactly relevant anymore.” The man’s tone is light and flippant but Peter notices how sharp, almost bitter, his voice goes on the word genius.

  
  
“You’ll always be relevant. You’re Tony Stark,” says Peter, and cringes inwardly.

  
  
Tony laughs. “Lucky for you Parker, I like a kiss-ass,” he says. “A kiss-ass is exactly what I need. This could be a very lucrative opportunity for you kid, all I–”

  
  
“I don’t play,” says Peter and he just interrupted Tony Stark. He just interrupted Tony Stark. _Tony Stark._ His life is over.

  
  
“I’m not asking you to play. I’m asking you to transcribe. You don’t need to ever touch an instrument to do that.”

  
  
Fourteen-year-old Peter is losing his shit. Working with Tony Stark, meeting Tony Stark, seeing Tony Stark from a distance, is his dream come true and he’s screaming at seventeen-year-old Peter to accept.

  
  
“I’m really sorry Mr Stark, I really can’t,” seventeen-year-old Peter says. “I don’t do music anymore. Any music.”

  
  
“Okay kid, I’m not gonna push,” says Tony. His eyes are still covered by his sunglasses and the rest of his face is completely unreadable. “It’s not like I don’t get it. But I paid for the coffee so you gotta take my card.”

  
  
“Okay,” Peter says, too quickly.

  
  
“See you around Parker,” says Tony as he stands to leave. “Don’t take too long to change your mind.”

  
  
**_-2008-_ **

  
  
“Pepper, tell me it was you.”

  
  
Tony can’t take his eyes off the video. He barely remembers it but it’s him, drunk. So drunk there’s vomit on his shirt and on the keys of the piano and he’s screaming.

  
  
“Don’t fucking tell me it’s not my fucking fault!” the Tony on screen is yelling at someone off camera. He’s crying and snot runs from his nose into his beard and when he shouts spittle flies from his mouth. “They were there because of me! Because of this!” He brings his fist down on the piano and it wails a discordant chord in protest. In the recording, Tony stops and stares. Then he’s attacking it, kicking and punching and clawing at the instrument until his hands are bloody and–

  
  
Pepper reaches out and shuts the laptop.

  
  
“It wasn’t me, Tony,” she says gently.

  
  
He exhales unhappily. He knows it wasn’t her. He knows she never would. The problem is, he’d thought the only other person it could be never would as well.

  
  
_Obie._

 _  
_  
“Fire him for me,” he says.

  
  
“Don’t you want to see him?” says Pepper. “You could ask him wh–”

  
  
Tony cuts her off. “Do I want to see the person who sold that video to the press and made my already public breakdown even more public? No, I don’t.”

  
  
“Okay,” she says quietly and there’s a pause where she doesn’t leave and he just looks at her.

  
  
_My Pepper,_ he thinks, before shoving the thought to the back of his brain where it belongs.

  
  
“It really wasn’t your fault,” she says slightly desperately, and then looks surprised she’s said it. She takes a deep breath and clearly decides that she’s started so she may as well finish. “They were soldiers Tony, they knew the risks. It’s horrible to say, but people die in wars and that isn’t your fault.”

  
  
“2.7%,” he says in response.

  
  
“What?”

  
  
“Recruitment went up by 2.7% specifically because of my song. They crunched the numbers, it’s official. That’s 2.7% who wouldn’t have been there if not for me. 2.7% who wouldn’t have died. Don’t tell me that’s not on me.” Tony can’t meet Pepper’s eyes, he doesn’t want to know what he’ll find there.

  
  
She doesn’t say anything.

  
  
She doesn’t say _anything_.

  
  
Until, finally, a resigned “Will that be all, Mr Stark?”

  
  
“That will be all, Ms Potts,” he replies.

  
  
**_-2018-_ **

  
  
May is sick. She’s hiding it but Peter can tell. He can smell it on her. She’s never hidden anything like this from him before so Peter knows it’s bad. Really bad.

  
  
Brochures for music colleges keep showing up on his bed and Peter can’t bear the look on her face when he throws them out, so they pile up on his desk unread. He knows he should take the hint but every time he even thinks about college his brain freezes over.

  
  
_Maybe I’ll just work at the bodega forever,_ thinks Peter. _Mr. Delmar would love that._

  
  
Then comes the day when he throws a brochure across the room in irritation and a letter falls out from between its pages. It’s for May and Peter knows he shouldn’t. He’s not sure, but it might actually be illegal and he does it anyway. He opens the letter.

  
  
Peter skims the first few lines until... _your insurance does not cover this treatment._ He has to read the whole thing again several times before it all sinks in. May has cancer. Fucking _cancer_ and her shitty health insurance won’t cover chemotherapy. She works in a hospital and her insurance won’t cover chemotherapy.

  
  
Her insistence on a music college starts to make a lot more sense. Peter sits on the edge of his bed and fists his hands in his hair. The only places that will give him a scholarship are music colleges and May won’t be around to help put him through anywhere else.

  
  
_Not again,_ Peter thinks. _Please God or anyone, not again._

 _  
_  
He stares numbly at the floor for a while, eyes tracing the patterns in the carpet, seeking out the places where it’s almost worn through. The carpet has been in this apartment longer than he has. It’s going to outlive May.

  
  
_This could be a very lucrative opportunity for you, kid._ Peter’s head jerks up as he remembers Tony Stark’s words.

  
  
He  roots around in his desk drawer for Tony’s card, fear gnawing at his insides that he might have thrown it out, that three weeks was too long to change his mind, that the man has already found someone else, that he might have to touch an instrument again. Peter finds it wedged right at the back and it nearly tears as he pulls it out.

  
  
He dials the number with trembling hands. The phone rings eight times before it’s answered.

  
  
**_-2010-_ **

  
  
“Yeah it’s different, but you can’t do the same thing your whole life, I was even starting to bore myself. A man can only write so many concertos,” Tony grins brightly at the reporter from behind his sunglasses.

  
  
“Er, you’ve written fifteen,” the reporter says.

  
  
“Exactly!” says Tony. “Fifteen is the maximum number of piano concertos a man can write before he becomes boring. Whatever else you think about it, it won’t be boring!”

  
  
“Is that a promise, Mr Stark?” asks the reporter.

  
  
“It’s a guarantee,” says Tony.

  
  
“And this is your ninth symphony. Tell us, do you think the _Iron Symphony_ will avoid the curse?”

  
  
Tony blinks at the question and is glad his eyes are hidden. “I’ve been called many things,” he says, “but superstitious isn’t one of them.”

  
  
The reporter opens his mouth to ask something else but Tony is already turning away and walking up the steps to the concert hall. He stops in the grand arched doorway to wave to the gathered crowd. Impulsively he blows them a few kisses and his stomach clenches unpleasantly when they swoon and cheer. It’s still the same. Exactly the same sickening feeling as when he was doing this for the very first time at nineteen. He retreats inside.

  
  
The hall is packed. Anyone who is anyone is here. He catches the eye of Christine Everhart and she raises a sculpted eyebrow at him. He likes her. Her 2003 piece on him is the closest he’s ever come to a bad review. She’s the only person in the business who has dared bring up the fact that he doesn’t really know anything about music. He’d made sure to include her on his guest list for tonight.

  
  
His seat is at the back of the stalls. Tony likes to watch the way people react as his music fills the room and chains them all together in one great shared experience. Pepper and Rhodey sit either side of him and each squeeze one of his hands. It’s new, very new, this thing between the three of them, but Tony thinks it might be the best thing that’s ever happened to him. To anyone ever, maybe.

  
  
It starts.

 

Tony watches the faces of strangers. It’s a risk, this piece. It’s more him than anything else he’s ever published. He’s cut the bullshit, finally. It’s simpler and softer and deeper than anything that’s come out of him before and if people are paying attention they’ll hear him. They’ll hear _him_.

  
  
Then something strange happens. Something that’s never happened before. The music starts but people don’t stop whispering to each other and twisting around in their seats to look at him and instead of one envelope of sound reaching out and containing them all there’s rustling and scratching as people fidget and shuffle or unwrap candies or taptaptap their fingers and there’s a woman over there taking her coat off and she takes ten minutes to take her coat off and the noise of it and the noise and the noise isn’t his noise.

  
  
_Why aren’t they listening?_ thinks Tony, still seated but leaning so far forward he’s nearly sliding right out of his chair.

  
  
In his periphery he sees Pepper and Rhodey exchange a worried glance. They’re both still holding his hands.

  
  
It doesn’t sound like it did when he wrote it. When he first tapped it out on the keys of his own piano it sounded like his heartbeat. Now it sounds slower than it should be, slightly sticky and too fucking sweet. Tony sees the conductor sway unnaturally and he can’t remember his name but he does remember the two glasses of wine he’d downed as they were introduced. He’s drunk. The conductor is drunk.

  
  
Tony wishes he were drunk.

  
  
They’re bored. The audience is bored and he’d opened up his soul for them and it was boring.

  
  
_Out out out out out out OUT,_ his whole body screams at him. Tony’s tie is too tight, it’s choking him and his lungs are filled with sand and they’re so heavy he can barely move. But he manages to lurch onto his feet and out of the auditorium.

  
  
Tony spends the rest of the concert alone on the stairs.

  
  
**_-2018-_ **

  
  
Peter doesn’t know what he’d been expecting but it wasn’t this. He’s not even sure what this is. This is Tony Stark in sweats and a _AC/DC_ t-shirt with oil stains and holes in it. This is a room that looks more like a garage than a composer’s study. This is Tony moving heaped piles of machinery off of a grand piano that probably cost more money than Peter has ever seen in his life.

  
  
It’s not that the place is messy, in fact there’s a kind of haphazard order to it all. It’s just that there’s a lot happening everywhere Peter looks. Tony seems to have spent his time since withdrawing from the public eye just... building things. And every single thing he has built in eight years is in this one room. Peter quickly gives up trying to work out what Tony has been trying to achieve or even identify what anything is. He can just about tell that each project clearly has its own space but there are so many of them and not one looks finished. He doesn’t know how Tony manages to process it all on a daily basis.

  
  
“I’d say I would’ve sorted this if I’d been expecting you but I probably wouldn’t,” the man says as he lifts a tangle of wires from the piano stool. He dumps them in a corner and waves an arm in the direction of another heap of assorted stuff. “There’s a chair under there somewhere.”

  
  
There is a chair under there. A surprisingly squishy armchair that Peter drags nearer to the piano with some effort. When he sits on it something digs into his back. He reaches behind the cushion and retrieves a strange silver collection of pipes, all bound tightly together in a complicated layered configuration.

  
  
“Er, Mr Stark? I found a... thing?” says Peter.

  
  
Tony looks over and a corner of his mouth briefly twitches up in a kind of half smile. He strides over to Peter and plucks the thing lightly out of his hands.

  
  
“What is it?” Peter asks.

  
  
“I never gave it a name but–” Tony lifts the pipes to his mouth and plays a few sad, sweet notes.

  
  
“It sounds like the sea.”

  
  
“Of course,” says Tony, in the same kind of tone as someone stating that the sky is blue. “That’s how I made it.”

  
  
He places it gently on a bench and turns to the piano. Peter almost misses his brief moment of hesitation before lifting the lid up and running his hand lightly just over the keys. When he finally plays a few notes they both wince. The piano is in desperate need of tuning.

  
  
“I’m gonna level with you, kid,” says Tony as he opens up the grand piano and stares calculatingly inside, “I don’t read music.”

  
  
Peter’s still a little starstruck, so it makes sense that he’d mishear. “What?” he says.

  
  
Tony passes him a tablet distractedly and starts rooting around in a cupboard. He hits his head and swears repeatedly but eventually emerges with a tuning lever and collection of other tools.

  
  
“That’s JARVIS,” Tony says when Peter unlocks the tablet and an app opens automatically.

  
  
Peter watches as the app measures the harmonics of Tony’s voice and marks it down in notes. He keeps his eyes on the screen as he speaks because his own words and tone and pitch are being recorded too.

  
  
“This is amazing, but if you’ve got it, why do you need me?” Peter says, and JARVIS records everything he says.

  
  
Tony is silent as he begins tuning the piano. He’s silent for a long while, and Peter begins to feel decidedly awkward, even as he enjoys playing with the tablet and exploring what JARVIS can do. The piano groans as its voice is slowly restored. Occasionally Tony huffs in frustration at a particularly uncooperative key or murmurs soothingly at it in Italian.

  
  
“JARVIS is great,” Tony finally says, “but he can’t tell me if what I’m writing is any good. He couldn’t tell me the _Iron Symphony_ was crap. It takes a person to–”

  
  
“I like the _Iron Symphony_ ,” Peter blurts out. “When it’s played right it’s amazing! It’s so vulnerable and bombastic at the same time and the use of non-traditional instruments is...” he trails off under the weight of Tony’s incredulous glare.

  
  
“How old are you, kid? Did I seriously just heard the word ‘bombastic’ out of your mouth?” Peter feels heat rise in his cheeks and he’s sure his ears are glowing bright red with embarrassment. Tony’s gaze softens and he looks back to the piano. His next words are so quiet that Peter barely hears them, but JARVIS dutifully records them anyway: “Thanks, kid.”

  
  
For a moment he looks as though he wants to say more, but instead he resumes tuning and Peter goes back to familiarising himself with every aspect of the JARVIS program. This time, the silence stretching between them isn’t awkward, and Peter feels something buzzing in his chest that could be mistaken for excitement, if he still got excited about music like that.

  
  
Eventually Tony gives a long sigh and pats the piano as if he’s comforting it.

  
  
“All done,” he says. “Good girl.”

  
  
Tony’s hands shake as he sits in front of the piano. For a lingering moment he stares down at the keys and doesn’t say anything. Then he’s turning to face Peter, a wide grin plastered over his features.

  
  
“We never talked wages!” he says. “I forgot to ask Pepper what we paid the last guy but I guess eighty dollars an hour? That’s normal right?”

  
  
The number is so ridiculous Peter nearly laughs, but Tony’s expression is completely sincere. He can’t work out if he genuinely doesn’t know what an average wage is or if he actually thinks Peter is worth that much. _Or,_ he thinks, remembering that video that everyone’s seen, _maybe Tony Stark really is that difficult to work with._ Peter dismisses the thought as soon as it comes. Since he met him, Tony has been eccentric and slightly chaotic but nowhere near enough to justify eighty dollars an hour.

  
  
“Mr Delmar usually pays me seven twenty five an hour,” he says before his brain can catch up with his mouth.

  
  
“Shit, kid, is that legal?” says Tony, and _Holy crap, he really doesn’t know_.

  
  
“That’s minimum wage, Mr Stark, and really I’d be happy with that but my Aunt is sick and I hate to ask for more but I was really hoping to save something up for–”

  
  
“Oh, yeah, I can take care of that. It’s health insurance, right? Employers normally cover health insurance, I do know that.” Tony is staring at the piano keys again but his expression is now less fearful and more studious.

  
  
“That’s usually only for your actual employees, Sir,” he says, and Peter has no idea how the conversation has gone so wrong. He has even less of an idea of why he’s trying to convince Tony Stark not to pay for May’s treatment.

  
  
The man’s hands have stopped shaking but he still hasn’t brought them down on the piano. He doesn’t look at Peter at all when he addresses him.

  
  
“Parker, three things: 1) What part of this is usual? 2) Don’t ever call me sir again 3) I’m paying for your Aunt to get better so don’t argue or you’re fired and I’ll still pay.”

  
  
Peter doesn’t know if he is going argue or agree when he opens his mouth, but in the end he just shuts it again. Tony has taken a deep breath and launched straight into playing his _Mechanist’s Prelude_ , the very first work he published. Fourteen-year-old Peter has made another appearance to hyperventilate about the experience, and seventeen-year-old Peter is trying his best not to join him.

  
  
The music is beautiful and sad and angry and makes Peter feel like he’s on fire, but Tony stops after only a few bars. He looks at Peter.

  
  
“Alright Pre-K,” he says, “last chance to back out.”

  
  
Peter thinks about it. He thinks about how just talking to Tony reminds him of how it used to feel, when he was a kid and playing music didn’t kill people.

 

He shakes his head and waits for Tony to continue playing.

  
  
**_-2013-_ **

  
  
“It’s big. It’s huge. It’s great,” says Val. She's sprawled next to him on the couch in a position that Tony would never have called comfortable, but which seems to make her quite happy. “But you and I both know that you’re not really in recovery until you write something.”

  
  
He hates that she’s right and he’s about to snark something defensive at her when the penthouse elevator chimes.

  
  
Tony loves the way Pepper and Rhodey laugh together. The way their smiles for each other are never tinged with worry. He wishes they didn’t insist on pulling him into the mix. _There’s no us without you,_ they say every time he mentions it, and Tony’s heart soars at the same time guilt curls around his throat.

  
  
That’s why he freaks out when they enter their penthouse and Valkyrie is there. He hadn’t planned on telling them yet. He’d thought they’d be out longer. He’d thought he had time.

  
  
“Hey honey, honey-bear,” he says deliberately casually. Tony doesn’t know why he does these things sometimes, but he stands up on the couch and turns to face them.

  
  
_Now this is weird_ and _awkward,_ he thinks.

  
  
“Hi,” says Valkyrie shortly. Obviously there was never gonna be any help from her.

  
  
“Hi?” says Pepper at the same time as Rhodey says “I thought you didn’t have any other friends?”

  
  
_Screw it,_ thinks Tony with a kind of manic resignation.

  
  
“This is Val,” he says. “She’s my sponsor. From AA.”

  
  
Pepper is trying very hard to not look like Tony has just told her he’s single handedly reversed global warming and cured cancer in one day. Rhodey, on the other hand, is pissed.

  
  
“You’re kidding me, man?” he says. “How long have we been trying to get you to go? And you’ve been going, what, the entire time?”

  
  
Valkyrie snickers. She looks over her shoulder at Rhodey and deadpans, “He’s about to hit five months sober. We’re all very proud.”

  
  
“Five months?” Rhodey says, exasperation colouring every syllable. “Five months!”

  
  
Pepper laughs lightly and lays a hand on Rhodey’s shoulder. She looks at Tony. “Get down,” she tells him fondly. “And come here.”

  
  
Tony does.

  
  
**_-2018-_ **

  
  
Most mornings when Peter arrives at the penthouse, Tony is still asleep. Peter makes coffee and the smell draws Tony into the kitchen with hair mussed and eyes bleary, and he doesn’t speak in anything but grunts until he’s drained his first cup. Then he disappears back to his bedroom to re-emerge twenty minutes later, clean and perfectly styled, and pours a second one. It’s unorthodox and definitely unprofessional, but Peter is being paid far too much to care. Secretly he suspects he wouldn’t mind even if Tony weren’t wildly overpaying him. He doesn’t know when exactly it happened, but at some point along the way he stopped being just his boss and started being, well, someone Peter doesn’t mind making morning coffee for.

  
  
Then there are the mornings after the nights Tony doesn’t sleep. On those days the whole apartment reeks of coffee and is filled with a nervous crackling energy that only gets worse the longer Tony stays awake. On one memorable occasion he didn’t sleep for four nights in a row and then passed out at the piano mid refrain. In those times they’re both wound tight like guitar strings and they either produce gold or garbage.

  
  
He doesn’t know why Tony needs a thumbprint scanner instead of a key for his apartment like everyone else, but Peter has learnt to just roll with these things. It buzzes slightly too loudly as he’s let into the apartment.

  
  
“Good morning, Mr Stark!” he calls as he heads to the kitchen.

  
  
There’s a warm pot of coffee already made on the counter, so Peter goes straight to the music room. Oddly, it’s completely empty of Tony, but there is a strange black box with some kind of antenna sitting next to the piano. Peter had spent an entire year when he was nine desperately wanting a theremin, until he’d realised Ben and May could never afford one and it wasn’t fair to keep asking. The desire never quite died though, so it’s without thinking that Peter waves his hand in the air above the box. A cascade of warbling notes hum through the room, and he jerks his hand back like he’s been burnt.

  
  
“I thought she might liven up the third movement,” says Tony. He’s leaning against the doorway, absolutely covered in grease, pretending not to notice as Peter jumps at his sudden appearance. Shame floods Peter’s entire body and his heart rattles against his sternum. It’s always like this when he tries to play something.

  
  
His chest is made of stone. His lungs are frozen and he’s so fucking _stupid_ it’s so stupid to be scared of playing an instrument and now Tony’s seen him act like a stupid baby he’s so stupid and dumb and-

  
  
“Kid!” Tony is suddenly right in front of him. “Breathe with me,” he says, and places Peter’s hand on his chest. There’s a long, straight scar right above his heart, Peter can feel it through the cloth of Tony’s tank top, and the strangeness of it under his fingertips pulls him away from his panic.

  
  
“You’re alright, you’re okay,” says Tony.

  
  
“Sorry,” Peter mumbles, looking anywhere but Tony’s face.

  
  
“Don’t be. Wanna tell me what that was about so I don’t do it again?”

  
  
That shocks him into meeting Tony’s eyes. “It wasn’t you Mr Stark! I just- I haven’t...” Peter takes a deep breath. “My Uncle died nearly four years ago. He had a heart attack when I was right in the next room. I could have saved him. But I was too busy writing a stupid song for my stupid crush and I heard him! I heard him fall over and I didn’t check and I miss him so much and I miss making music and he- I just- I can’t...” Peter’s words devolve into heaving sobs.

  
  
He doesn’t expect the hug, and from the look on Tony’s face when he pulls away, he hadn’t either. His hands rest on Peter’s shoulders and the warmth and the weight of them is so comforting he doesn’t care that Tony is probably getting machine oil on his favourite hoodie.

  
  
“Peter,” says Tony, more serious than he has ever heard him. “I know how shit it is – losing people – and I’m not saying it has to be anytime soon, but there comes a point when you just have to say _enough_. You have to pick if you die or it does. Don’t take too long making that choice.”

  
  
Peter sniffs, and wipes his nose with the back of his hand.

  
  
“Gross,” Tony says, taking his hands off Peter’s shoulders and wiping them on his trousers. “You wanna take a sick day?”

  
  
Peter’s stomach flops unpleasantly. May is at chemo, and the thought of waiting around their tiny apartment all day almost brings the panic rushing back. It sounds like the screech of brakes and the crumpling of metal as Peter sits in the backseat clutching his brand new guitar and watches his parents die. It sounds like the thump of a body hitting the floor and the chord he plays to cover up the noise. It sounds like every song he’s ever written and everyone who’s been hurt because of him.

 

He thinks about Tony’s scar, the physical proof that he’s already survived what killed Ben. He thinks about what he wants to win.

  
  
“Can we just work? Please?” he says.

  
  
Tony stares at him for a moment too long before shrugging nonchalantly. Peter follows him into the kitchen and gnaws on his lip as Tony scrubs the grease off his forearms and downs a mug of tepid coffee.

  
  
Peter wants to ask him something important, but what he says instead is, “Did you lose a fight with a grease monster?”

  
  
Tony quirks an eyebrow at him and leans against the counter. “The elevators were busted and Rhodey couldn’t get to work.” A pained expression flits across Tony’s face almost imperceptibly. “Luckily for him, he has a genius boyfriend who can fix that kind of thing, no problem.”

  
  
“Who’s Mr Rhodes’ other boyfriend?” asks Peter, and Tony throws a scrunched up paper towel at him.

  
  
“Me, Rhodey, and Pepper barely fit in one bed as it is, we’re not adding anyone else.”

  
  
“Ew, Mr Stark!”

  
  
“You started it,” says Tony, throwing another paper towel at Peter and darting back to the music room before he can throw it back.

  
  
It’s not a very productive day. Peter keeps getting distracted and Tony is stuck on the same four bars near the end of the third movement. He plays them over and over and over until Peter’s heart keeps time and his teeth are set on edge.

  
  
He frowns. Up until this point, Peter has always been able to follow the feelings behind the music. He and Tony are on the same wavelength – more or less – and Peter is usually able to make some suggestions when he gets trapped in a rut like this. But this time he just can’t work out what Tony wants to do with the piece.

  
  
“Are you trying to–”

  
  
“I don’t _try_ anything,” snaps Tony. “This is just what happens.”

  
  
Peter blinks in surprise. He’s watched Tony write for months now. He’s seen how hard Tony works, how long he spends thinking about every note, how much of himself he’s poured into every sound of the symphony. It’s the furthest thing in the world from it all _just happening_. He takes a quick, shallow, breath.

  
  
“Mr Stark, you know it’s all you, right?” he says, and Tony looks confused. “It’s not like, inspiration or magic or something. It’s you.”

  
  
“Yeah Pete, of course it is,” says Tony. It’s casual and dismissive, but Peter notices the way his quick smile doesn’t reach his eyes.

  
  
A long tense moment stretches out between them and in the silence Peter realises it’s dark outside. As always, time has run away from them, and Pepper and Rhodey will soon be home. Peter can feel the chance to ask the question that’s been eating at him all day slipping away.

  
  
“How long?” he says, before he chickens out. “How long before you decided it was enough?”

  
  
Tony laughs bitterly. “I’ll let you know,” he replies. His chest heaves with a deep sigh and he turns on the piano stool to face Peter. “My mom taught me to play. It was about the only time I ever spent with her, and my dad hated it. But he let her teach me, and I loved every minute. She taught me everything she found interesting, when she found it interesting. I could play _Für Elise_ before I knew what a C-sharp was. Teaching me to read music was never interesting, and after she died I didn’t want to learn. And then and then and then–”

  
  
“It stopped being something you didn’t want to do and became something you couldn’t,” finishes Peter.

  
  
“Yeah,” says Tony hoarsely. He looks down at his hands and then Peter sees the moment he abruptly shuts himself off again. His back gets a little straighter and the same fake grin as before stretches across his face. “No more tragic backstory!” He plays a pretty little tinkling melody. “I think I know how this movement ends.”

  
  
**_-2016-_ **

  
  
“It doesn’t mention you at all!” says Pepper, angrily scrolling through another article on her phone. “Not one hint it was a collaboration!”

  
  
“Pep, it’s fine. At least people are enjoying it,” says Tony. He’s practicing scales, trying to get them up to speed. He keeps just missing it.

  
  
“Tony,” she says, “it’s your work, you should get at least a little credit.” He can feel her standing just behind him, and he focuses on the piano. But when she rests her hands lightly on his shoulders, Tony can’t help but lean back on the stool until his body is pressed against hers. Her arms move to cradle his head and he can feel the point of her chin resting on the top of his skull. The touch is a physical relief and he melts into her. His fingers continue dancing over the keys.

  
  
“It was years ago and Steve transcribed everything anyway, he made the whole thing playable. It’s his, he can have it,” he says, and Pepper sighs. “This isn’t your job anymore,” he reminds her. “Tell me about the school.”

  
  
“Let me put your name on it,” says Pepper immediately, and Tony should have known that was coming. “It’s your funding.”

  
  
“And it’s your baby. It’ll do better without the association.”

  
  
They’ve had this argument countless times. Ever since Pepper had the idea to open a music school for underprivileged kids and Tony enthusiastically offered to bankroll the project, they’ve been sticking on the same points. If Rhodey were here he’d settle it. Rhodey always settles it.

  
  
But Rhodey isn’t here. Rhodey is still in hospital after the accident. The accident which had taken his legs. The accident which had knocked him unconscious for three weeks. The accident which had nearly killed him.

  
  
The accident when Tony had been driving.

  
  
“The sonata...” says Pepper.

  
  
“Let Rogers keep it,” he repeats.

  
  
“He changed the name.”

  
  
Tony stops playing. “What?”

  
  
“It’s called _Sonata for Margaret_ now,” Pepper says quietly in that soft way she uses to cover her anger.

  
  
“It was supposed to be for Mom,” says Tony slowly.

  
  
“I know.”

  
  
He stands up too quickly and knocks against the keys, and the piano sings out in protest. The sound echoes as Tony flees the room, hands shaking.

  
  
Then.

  
  
Then there’s the relapse and the hospital and the pacemaker pulsing steadily in his chest. The doctors say he won’t feel it, but he does. Every time he breathes, Tony does.

  
  
**_-2019-_ **

  
  
“Tony!”

  
  
Peter sees Tony’s shoulders stiffen as he turns to greet the small blond man pushing through the crowd towards them.

  
  
“Steve,” says Tony, and Peter didn’t even notice him putting on his sunglasses but there they are hiding his eyes. The smile he gives the other man could almost be genuine.

  
  
“I’m so glad I got to see you,” says Steve, wheezing slightly. “I wanted to apologise for the whole sonata mess.”

  
  
“It’s forgotten,” Tony says, waving a hand dismissively.

  
  
“No. I need to explain myself.” Steve’s voice is firm and carries a weight of conviction Peter wants to trust, if only his words didn’t sound so practiced. “I screwed you over, and for that I’m sorry. My manager found the piece and published it without my knowledge. I never wrote our names on it so he just assumed it was mine... and I never corrected him.”

  
  
Tony stares at Steve. Peter is desperately trying to piece together their relationship through context cues. He’s fairly certain that Steve is the other person Tony has collaborated with, but he’d only mentioned him a few times and never explained why they’d stopped. He’s also fairly certain that this Steve is Steve Rogers, world-famous conductor and composer and Peter’s second-greatest hero ever. Fourteen-year-old him is about to faint.

  
  
“I really don’t give a shit about that, Rogers. I was drunk the whole time, and you did most of the work,” says Tony, folding his arms in front of his chest defensively.

  
  
Steve sighs. “She died,” he says and Tony’s whole body goes rigid. “I’d always thought of the sonata as hers and then she died and–”

  
  
“So did my mom,” hisses Tony. He’s shaking with barely repressed rage and grief, and Peter knows what that’s like, so he reaches out and grabs the man’s arm.

  
  
“Mr Stark, we need to go,” he says, and it’s like Tony and Steve simultaneously remember he’s there. “Ms Potts and Mr Rhodes are waiting for us.”

  
  
Tony lets out a long shaky breath.

  
  
“I’ll let you go,” says Steve. “I really am sorry, Tony.”

  
  
Tony lets Peter guide him to the back of the stalls but he can tell that he hasn’t calmed down at all. If anything he’s getting worse. Something weird is going on with his breathing and the shaking hasn’t stopped.

  
  
“Tony? What happened?” says Pepper when Peter finds her and Rhodey. His wheelchair is parked at the end of the row of seats and she is already seated next to him.

  
  
Rhodey just reaches up and gently removes the sunglasses from Tony’s face. “We don’t have to stay,” he says.

  
  
“I’m fine,” says Tony.

  
  
“I’m the Queen of England,” says Pepper.

  
  
“And I run marathons,” adds Rhodey. “Don’t bullshit us Tony, we’re just concerned about you.”

  
  
“Um Mr Stark,” says Peter, a little uncertainly. “We really can go if you want. I don’t mind.”

  
  
“I do. We’re staying,” snaps Tony. He tries to smile, but it just comes out pained. “I can’t miss my own spectacular comeback.”

  
  
“Okay, Mr Stark.” Peter says, although Pepper and Rhodey still look worried.

  
  
It takes far too long for the orchestra to finish warming up, for the audience to filter in, for people to start noticing Tony Stark making his first public appearance in years, for the first few pieces to be played and applauded, for them to finally reach the part of the evening the programme only calls _A New Composition_.

  
  
Tony leans forward in his seat.

  
  
It starts.

  
  
Something strange happens. The audience breathes together as one great lung and the music just... the music just... it’s everything. Everywhere. The only reason Peter isn’t pulled in is that he’s heard it before. He already knows it by heart. There’s the string of notes he suggested and there’s the part Tony called him to play at 4 a.m. because he’d been stuck for a week and finally figured it out and then there’s the bit that had somehow come to them both at the same time and Peter had transcribed before Tony even finished playing.

  
  
He looks at Tony. Tony isn’t looking at the stage. He doesn’t even seem to be listening to the music. He staring at the audience. At every face and their identical expressions of wonder. He’s very quietly crying.

  
  
Peter realises that he’s crying too.

  
  
When he gets home after the concert, once he’s called May in hospital and told her how it went and she’s told him that she’s finally responding to treatment, Peter digs under his bed to find his old guitar. He spends an age tuning it, getting it to sound just like he remembers.

  
  
It’s impossible to recreate something written for a full orchestra on a single battered instrument, but Peter tries. He’s out of practice and his fingers are slower than they were and the piece really, really doesn’t sound like it did in the concert hall.

  
  
But Peter plays it start to finish anyway.

 

**Author's Note:**

> it's been over six months since this fic was birthed in my brain. i have no idea why it's taken so long for me to actually finally finish it but here we are
> 
> i'm actually very proud of this one
> 
> the biggest biggest thank you to all my betas:  
> -Coconutice22  
> -Gavilan  
> -skye-wyr
> 
> if you liked this then preludes, the weirdest most beautiful musical which is basically the soundtrack to this fic, might be just up your alley, check it out it's GREAT
> 
> errrrrrrr so yeah, please feed me with your comments they are my only sustenance
> 
> i WILL end up adding things i've forgotten to these notes sorry i'm just Like That
> 
> anyway i hope you enjoyed!


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